His fingers brushed a stray curl from her temple, stopping any reply she was certain would have come out in a stuttering jumble of words.
The touch, lighter than that of a feather, ignited more treachery under her skin, ignited sparks that raced straight to her pulse and between her legs. She shifted to ease the discomfort of sheer need.
His hardened, shadowed jaw tempted her, and she raised her palm. The roughened texture scraped, and her skin prickled with sensation. Stanford had never been able to grow a beard when it was fashionable. The faintest ghost of a smile tugged at Emerson’s mouth, as though he’d just won a point in this hazardous byplay that rent the air.
He leaned closer. “Lady Stanford,” he said softly, dangerously, “are you attempting to compromise me?”
Rose swallowed. Hard. Her other hand crept to the back of his neck, seemingly of its own accord. “I do believe I am, Mr. Whitmore.” She couldn’t get her voice above a whisper.
He drew closer, hovering over her until she was flat on her back and bracing his arms on either side of her. His lips brushed hers. “Is this what you desire, my lady?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Whitmore.”
His lips molded hers, coaxing them apart, then brushing his tongue against hers. All velvet and warmth.
She clutched his shoulders with both hands, terrified of falling into nothingness should she let go. Her heart did the stuttering her voice didn’t do. Capturing her breath was an impossible deed.
Slowly, he lifted away. “Is this a condition of your terms, Lady Stanford?”
Rose blinked, his words barely penetrating. “W-what?” Then they did, and she shoved him off her.
The move caught him by surprise, and he flipped to the floor, hauling her with him. She landed with a thud atop his large body. Solid body. Hard-as-stone body. She reared up, her hands on his huge, capable shoulders, fury shaking her. “You…you bastard.”
~~~
Pinned to the carpet with her delectable body atop his, Emerson ought to have apologized, or at the very least rolled her off himbefore all propriety deserted him entirely. He wasn’t that good. Instead, he held fast to her waist, looked up into her furious eyes, and did the devil’s work.
He smiled.
“A bastard, aye. ’Tis a label I cannot deny. Literally or figuratively. But if you mean to play at compromising men, Rose, you would do better in choosing a different opponent. Because I play to win.”
Shock had her breath coming out, quick and uneven, her palms still braced against his shoulders as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to push free. God help him, he could feel the heat of her even through her stays. His better judgment roared for restraint, but his body…his body was a traitor.
She scrambled up at last, a slippered foot on either side of his hips, and shook out her tangling skirts.
Unable to resist, his hands slid to her stockinged ankles, and he closed his hands around the slimmest legs and slid up.
A strangled noise rippled the air. “Sir!” In her attempt to escape, she nearly toppled with the low table that hindered their movements. “You w-will not m-make a game of me.” Emotion sputtered from her, trembling and furious.
He truly was a bastard, figuratively. With quick reflexes, he steadied her then dragged himself to his feet. Frowning, he straightened his waistcoat and brushed at his breeches with deliberate calm, though his pulse hadn’t slowed. “Game? Forgive me, Rose.”
The glare she leveled at him might have felled a lesser man.
He planted his hands on her shoulders to prevent her from storming away. They would have this out. Now. Do or die. “Why do you kiss as if you’ve never been kissed before?” he asked softly.
Her eyes widened, her face flushed, bright scarlet. From the heat of the fire? No, it wasn’t that. She tried shoving from hisgrip in an attempt to step back, but he held fast, too curious for her answer.
Instead, he was met with a stubborn silence. It saturated the air.
“I suspect your late husband failed in appreciating exactly whom he’d married,” he said, lifting her chin.
An instant shimmer glistened, and she blinked it away, her lips firming.
He leaned in slowly and brushed them softly with his own. “The man was an absolute fool,” he told her, feathering her skin with his words and his breath, feeling her tremble beneath him. The sense that she’d been horribly abused—perhaps not physically—her brother would have crushed Stanford had that been the case. No, it was more insidious.
Neglect.
Humiliation.
